


This Wasn't Supposed To Happen

by Sp00ky_Titty



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, assassin crowley, hitman Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00ky_Titty/pseuds/Sp00ky_Titty
Summary: Crowley works as a hitman, and was assigned target was an old bookshop seller, who he or the people he works for, didn't know existed until now. Once Crowley accomplishes the task, another unidentified face has been seen in his flower shop and the bar he goes to. Suspicious.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

When a hitman, assassin, contract killer, or whatever other fancy or “creative” name you wish to call them, take the lives that they do, it is simply because it’s their job. It is nothing personal to them, they don’t feel remorse over the lives lost at their hands. Its business, it is just numbers, it's about the money made, similar to why a person chooses to bag groceries. 

Everyone has their jobs, just as everyone commits crimes that their moral standards or fears of being caught, allows them.

The chances that you, personally, know a hitman are slim. But the likelihood that you know someone, who knows a guy, who knows a drug dealer/smuggler, who knows someone who knows a hitman, are  _ much _ higher. If you know the right people, getting in contact with  _ anyone  _ isn’t difficult; the probability that you are only a handful of people away from someone who will do that dirty work, is probably much higher than you would like to imagine. It is certainly higher than I like to think about.

When Crowley opens the door to his flat, he almost steps on a folder that was lying on the floor. Just as any other folder that showed up in his home, the folder was slid under the door, and didn’t give any hints or clues of what the contents were on the inside. It looked just like any other pale yellow folder with a paperclip keeping the papers from spilling out of it.

However, just because the folder looks like any other boring one that is used for filing, doesn’t mean that what’s held within it is boring by any means.

On the contrary, in fact, it is usually the things that appear to be boring on the outside that are fascinating on the inside. Just as when the outside of things try too hard to sell the excitement are usually the ones that are much more boring than promised. 

There is no need to try and hype something up that he knew exactly what was going to be in it. And what it was, is anything but boring.

Crowley flicked the lightswitch on before bent down with a hand on his knee to keep balance as he picked up said folder. He opened up the folder as he walked to his couch, thanking that muscle memory is a thing as he doesn’t bump into any chairs or potted plants on the way to the living room.

In the folder, there was a photo attached with some information, similar to all the other folders he had seen appear just inside his flat for the last few years.

The photo supplied was an old man, whose head was beginning to bald with thin, curly white hair. The person in the photo was wearing a dark reddish-brown diamond pattern jumper with a light blue dress shirt underneath. The old man had deep wrinkles on his forehead, by his eyes, and the sides of his mouth, no doubt lines from smiling a lot throughout his long life. 

He had just looked like any other stereotypical old man, the reason why someone had wanted him dead certainly didn’t show in the picture. The man had actually looked to be quite nice and humble- although Crowley knew that looks can be deceiving, so that was by no means a fair judgement.

On the paper under the picture, there was a very basic description of the man written in messy handwriting, which read: 

Name: Francis Fell Age: 68 Gender: Male

Work: A.Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books

Home: The flat above the Bookshop 

Crowley took the paper out of the folder and flipped it around, trying to see if there was any more information than that, but there was nothing. Usually, there was more information, Beelzebub even would attach what the instigator had said: how exactly they wanted him to go about it, what they said about the person, etc.

Usually, he was able to understand why they wanted the person dead in the first place- not that he actually cared, he was just naturally curious. But more information was always better, and the job quicker and easier on his part.

Before Crowley was able to think up a reason that there was very little information given, the phone in his office rang throughout the rather empty and quiet flat. He got up with a huff and walked the short distance to the phone.

“What.” Crowley answered as he picked up the phone.

“You know,” the voice on the other side of the phone began with a hint of amusement in their voice, “most people answer a call with  _ hello _ , or something of that nature.”

“Good thing that I am not like other people.” Crowley grumbled. “So, the hit. There is hardly any information, Beelzabub. What gives.”

“I gave you as much information as I got.” Beelzebub supplied.

“I assume the pay is worth it?” Crowley asked while he picked at the dirt and lint underneath his nails.

“Oh, yes.” They laughed out. “Very much so. Eighty k.”

“Eighty thousand?” Crowley shouted in disbelief. Did the person not understand that the average cost of a hit was  _ much _ cheaper than that? Or did they just have money that they were able to throw around like that? “Is it legit?”

“Yup.” Beelzebub responded, popping the ‘p’ dramatically.

“When-” The redhead started, only to be cut off.

“Didn’t say. Just as soon as you can get it done, I imagine.”

“Is there anything else on this Francis?” 

“Eh, not my job to dig up information about ‘em, that’s on you.” Beelzebub said lazily, probably waving their hand around on the other end on the line.

“Yea, s’pose it is.” Crowley sniffed. “Never even heard of this guy.”

“Nor I. Just get the job done, you know what’s expected.” They said before leaving Crowley with a note playing on the phone, telling him that Beelzebub hung up on him.

“Right then.” Crowley sighed as he put the phone back in its place. “Guess I better start now then.” He sighed as he began to look for his laptop.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Crowley opened his laptop and began looking through the internet for any mentions of Francis Fell or his bookshop, but there was little to nothing on either of the two. The man had no social media, which is very curious for someone this day in age. Not even a website for his book shop.

The only time either of the two were mentioned was one or two complaints how, even though it was a book  _ shop _ , it didn’t seem like they wanted to sell anything. He would follow the customers around his shop, double checking the books they took out and looked at, the shop smelt foul, and he only kept raising the price of a book when they were trying to negotiate on the price.

There were a couple of people who said nice things: how he and his son seemed really nice, were very accepting no matter how old fashioned they seemed to be, and even a few times, they were known to bake something and give them to customers. Except, there was no eating in the bookshop, so they were then forced outside to eat it, to only have the shop close as soon as those doors did. 

The person who was paying for the death of Francis kept themselves anonymous. Which, sure, Beelzebub had given them apple opportunities to make their deals without knowing who exactly was making the deal, but most people with that kind of money didn’t care to be known. If they got caught and arrested, then they would have enough money to pay for bail.

Without any information on this guy, Crolwey decided that in order to get anymore information on him, he would have to rely on his abilities to do so.

“Wait.”He told himself. “Why does it even matter? I know where he works, where he  _ lives _ , and a picture of him, that’s all I need.” 

Even though he knew that was true, his lack of information did have him curious. Besides, he needed to know when he usually left the shop, when he was usually there, etc. to be able to carry out his job. That’s what he told himself anyways.

“No.” He told himself before his curiosity got to be too much. “I’ll get caught, or at least be under suspicion if I’m lurking around or in the shop.”

It isn’t like Crowley didn't know how to swiftly pick locks, if he needed it. He just needed to go in, get the job done, and get out. 

He may have grown numb with killing people, but that didn’t mean that the fear of being caught didn’t grow numb. Instead, the anxieties and paranoia only grew throughout the years. 

As soon as he took the job of becoming a hitman, he realized how  _ easy _ it is to get in contact with one. He learned how the whole business worked. How there could be anyone after him, and if they were half decent at their job, then he wouldn’t know it until his body dropped to the floor.

His fear is what caused him to be more weary of people than he already was; he made rules for himself about people. To summarize all the rules he made for himself: don’t get into personal relationships.

Although he refuses to admit it outloud, he has broken his rules a few times. He made a friend, Anathema, who works at the flower shop with him, and who picks on him whenever he says “I’m not nice” when he does something nice.

“There is no reason to not be able to get the job done by a couple nights.” Crowley told himself. “Just get in, do the job, and get out. It isn’t that hard.”

\---

The Friday night that he snuck into the bookshop, he found Francis in the back room, reading some old book.

“Oh hello.” The old man smiled when Crowley walked in, blocking the exit of the room. “I didn’t hear you come in, is there something that I can help you with?”

Before Francis was able to get a clue what was going on, he fell limp in the ratty old chair that he was sitting in.

Crowley had. . . done his job enough times to learn how to use a proper silencer, cover his eyes,the snake tattoo on the side of his face, use paint on his face, and make scar wax to hide the bridge of his nose to trick facial recognition cameras.

He would park his car a few blocks away, and walk the rest of his way. Once he killed the target, he would leave immediately, not lingering like other amateurs would. He doesn’t want to be caught, to be seen lurking about the crime scene. 

The night Francis was killed, Crowley suspected that his son, who he assumed lived with him, would find him in the morning, scram, and call the police.

When Crowley got back to his flat, he called Beelzebub to let them know that the job was done. They congratulated him, and told him that he would see the money come in over the course of a few days,

The morning after that night, there were no police called. There were no sirens the following day either, or the day after that. Crowley was tempted to go over and see what was going on.

“No.” Crowley scolded himself. “You will get caught that way.” One day, his curiosity is going to be what gets him in trouble, what gets him caught. He knows that, and is patiently waiting for the day to come where his curiosity becomes too much, and he gives in.

\---

The Tuesday after that night, he is in the back of his flower shop, yelling at plants that he ever so graciously allowed to live. 

“You’re lucky that I don;t turn each and every one of you to mulch.” Crowley spat. “

“Go easy on them, would you?” Anathema laughed, walking in with a few new potted plants under her arms.

“They’re getting lazy, look at ‘em!” Crowley shouted, waving his arms around.

Anathema hummed, setting the plants down. “I think that they look the same they did yesterday. I think you are being the overdramatic shit you are.”

“I’m not-” Crowley began loudly, getting a look from Anathema that said ‘bet’. “I’m not overdramatic.” Crowley huffed.

“Sure thing.” Anathema laughed.

“Hello?” A voice came from the front, putting a pause on Anathema’s teasing.

“Finish watering the plants.” He threw a water mister in her direction. “And  _ don’t _ pamper them.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Anathema leaned over to pick up the mister that had landed by her feet.

“Is anyone-oh, hello.” The person said when they saw Crowley emerge from the back room. “I was hoping to get some plants?”

“What kind.” Crowley grumbled, looking for a piece of paper and pen.

“Flowers.” The person smiled.

“Okay, but,” Crowley ran a hand down his face, “what  _ kind _ ?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that I don’t know much about flowers.” The stranger laughed nervously.

“How about this.” Crowley said when he was finally able to find a pen. “Tell me what for, and I can help, yea?”

“I’m reopening a bookshop.” They said, rubbing a hand on the back of their neck. Crowley finally looked up when he said that, taking in who he was talking to. 

The person looked like a spitting image of the old guy who ran a bookshop for even older books. They had whiter, and fluffier hair than the old man. The suit that was worn looked like it was a few centuries too old, topped with a tartan bow tie. Their face was round, and held a genuine smile, and eyes a light blueish-green that was so close to being a grey colour.

“Uhm.” Crowley shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Daffodils?” He choked.

“What was that dear?” They asked politely.

“Daffodils, they mean new beginnings and rebirth.” Crowley explained.

“Those will do lovely.” They smiled even brighter. “Should brighten up the shop nicely.”

Crowley nodded, and moved to go put some into a bouquet for the person.

“I’m Aziraphale.” A hand stuck out to Crowley, a universal gesture, and Crowley took it. “Who might you be?”

“Craw- er. Crowley.” He stuttered out, shaking Aziraphale’s hand, and left to collect the flowers, and another plant for him for his new shop.

“Oh my, those are quite lovely.” Aziraphale smiled when he was handed the daffodils. “How much?”

“Twenty pounds.” Crowley answered. “Thanks.” He mumbled when handed the money. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Crowley said before Aziraphale was able to turn away and leave. “On the house.” He put the plant on the counter, pushing it towards Aziraphale.

“What plant might this be?” Aziraphale asked as he stroked the leaves.

“Angel wings.” Crowley replied.

When Aziraphale thanked him and left, Anathema came out of the back room. “Dude, you are as red as a tomato.” She picked.

“Am not.” Crowley argued.

“Are too. You’re totally flustered.” She continued. “You even gave him the best looking plant in the green house for  _ free _ .”

“Anathema.” He warned,

“What did you do that for?” She let out a fake, dramatic gasp. “Do you  _ like _ him?”

“No.” Crowley said through his teeth. “He’s just reopening up a bookshop. Thought I’ be…”

“Nice?” Anathema teased.

“I’m not nice.” Crowley mumbled.

“Sure.” She hummed. “A bit too soon if you ask me. Didn’t his father  _ just _ die the other day?”

“No idea.” Crowley said. “How did you even find out? I didn’t see anything on the news.”

“Newt is friends with Aziraphale.” Anathema shrugged. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this chapter is really short! The following chapters should be longer, hope you enjoyed reading!  
> Kudos and comments are always welcomed and loved <3


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